


Tethered

by Azzandra



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hands, Touch-Starved, kink meme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 03:02:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3158777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azzandra/pseuds/Azzandra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for a prompt on the kink meme: <i>I just love how hands in Inquisition finally aren't withered claws or weird sausages. In fact, I love it so much, that I'd like to see some interactions focusing on hands and fingers and wrists, with literally any ships and characters. ANything goes!</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Tethered

Over the Inquisitor's upturned palm, the Veil barely rippled, thin threads weaved together slowly, carefully. The Inquisitor frowned ever so slightly in concentration, and her fingers twitched, as if she wanted to grab onto the weavings of the spell and sort them out that way.   
  
“The way you manipulate the Fade comes from your mind, not your body,” Solas reminded her.  
  
The Inquisitor's lips pressed tightly into a line. She pushed a strand of mana through the spell, slowly and carefully. It was hesitant at first, wavering, testing, but closer than she'd ever gotten.   
  
Her fingers twitched again, and almost closed in on the spell. It would have been very unwise if they did.  
  
“Focus your mind, Inquisitor,” Solas said, and clasping her hand with both of his, held it open.   
  
She almost had it. The Veil rippled and churned, coalescing visibly as a cloud of confused green and black not quite colors. Very slowly, Solas pulled her hand down, further away from it.  
  
Then, all at once, the spell fell into place, like a string being pulled together perfectly into an elaborate knot.  
  
She made a sound of satisfaction and Solas could see she finally understood how it was meant to work. She held it for a moment before letting it disperse. She'd have less difficulty casting the spell next time.  
  
“Thank you, Solas, that was-- er, that was what I wanted to know.”  
  
The Inquisitor blinked in embarrassment for a moment. She'd requested his aid rather abruptly, though the realization just now caught up with her. The tome of rift magic by which she studied offered instructions that she found confusing, and after an afternoon of struggling with them, in a state of pique, she'd gone down to the rotunda.  
  
“There has to be a better way to do this,” she'd said with no preamble, showing the offending paragraph to Solas.  
  
Solas had raised an eyebrow, but glanced at the page anyway.  
  
“You are correct, Inquisitor,” he'd replied, because while the instructions were correct, they were not the best way to cast the spell, either. He could easily provide an alternative.  
  
And it was clear that the Inquisitor would pursue this matter until she was satisfied. Though she was usually far more polite about requesting anything from anyone—and from him in particular—in that moment she'd been far too swept up in getting her answers to stop and consider anything else.  
  
Not that Solas minded the resulting training session in her quarters, sitting on the floor in front of the hearth. There was something both familiar and endearing in her zest for knowledge that he was more than happy to indulge. She was beginning to develop an intuition for how the Fade could be manipulated, and though she was inexperienced and awkward for now, he could still see the raw potential in her.  
  
“You are quite welcome,” he replied, amusement creeping into his voice.  
  
Then he looked down and saw that he was still holding her hand. Her fingers were a bit too short to be elegant, and calloused from holding staves, but warm. Solid. When she pulled her hand back, the tips of his fingers lingered against her skin just a beat too long, seemingly of their own accord.

“Touch starved?” she asked.  
  
He looked up, so perturbed that he didn't understand the words at first.  
  
“Pardon?” he croaked, before clearing his throat.  
  
“Well,” she said, “before the Inquisition, all your friends were spirits, weren't they? How long since you actually touched someone? I mean...” She took his hand and pressed it between both her palms, “...physically, just touched another flesh and blood person?”  
  
Solas looked at her, calmly, and if he was slow in giving an answer, it was to show how unaffected he was by the question, and  _certainly_  not to enjoy her hands for as long as possible.  
  
“It... has been a while, yes,” he admitted. “I have no real inclination towards physical displays.” Which was half a lie in itself, when really anybody whose touch he would have craved, or even tolerated, was long dead in this time.  
  
And still, he allowed the Inquisitor to hold his hand.  
  
She hummed thoughtfully, turned his hand over, more clasped than held it, so she could brush her thumb over his knuckles. It was too rough to be described as a caress. More like petting. Firm, even strokes. Solas still didn't pull back, and this time he told himself it was because he wanted to see where she was going with this.  
  
“Except,” she continued, and now rubbed circles with her thumb against the back of his hand, “the body has needs. Food, water, sleep—and while you can go without it for longer, eventually it needs touch, too.”  
  
Solas swallowed, displeased to consider that she might be right. The last time he touched someone, it was to grab her hand and help her close that very first rift. Even if he thought back, he still could not remember when he'd last experienced any kind of physical affection from someone.   
  
Though, given the Inquisitor's business-like demeanor as she continued her ministrations, he suspected that any perceived intimacy in this situation was purely a projection on his part. She looked as focused as she did when weaving a spell, her brows pulled together as she concentrated. It was the demeanor of a healer, reassuring but impersonal.  
  
“I used to see this at the Circle sometimes,” she continued. “When they brought in apostates who'd been living on their own for too long, or mages who spent a lot of time in solitary confinement. Too long without other people, and they'd just grow... unmoored from their own skin. Or, maybe that's the wrong word.” She gave Solas a slanted grin, faint and gone again. “But they needed other people's touch to feel settled again.”  
  
“And you provided them with it, I take it?” he asked, voice just a bit drier than he intended.

“Not  _me_ , necessarily, but yes? Sometimes?” She shrugged. “Just... a hug, or a pat on the hand, or simply brushing against their shoulder while passing them by.” She reached up to Solas's shoulder and settled her hand there for just a few moments, before tracing a path down his arm again, slowly. He could just feel the delicate trace of heat through his sleeve. “It wasn't much, but it helped.”   
  
Her fingers curled around Solas's wrist next, tips against his pulse. She paused, and regarded him expectantly. She offered kindness quietly, without expecting anything in return, but she wouldn't force it upon him. If she were to continue, it would have to be at his behest.  
  
Solas's dignity rankled, but her touch felt like sweetness against the skin. Whatever lack he felt, whatever strange thirst he'd only just noticed in himself, it needed just a bit more to be sated. And if he accepted, it wasn't as if she'd ever know how low he'd truly fallen to have been enthralled by a mortal with only this, only her ordinary hands. She spoke of the Circle and apostates; this was something she was used to giving freely, without judgment.  
  
He smiled thinly, as if he was the one indulging her.  
  
“Very well. If you believe it helps,” he said, and nodded once.  
  
She smiled in return, the expression so fleeting that Solas knew without a doubt she wasn't fooled. But she was willing to entertain the fiction, and that was enough. She squirmed just a bit closer to him.  
  
He took her hand this time. It wasn't as if she needed it, but he traced the length of each of her fingers slowly, from her palm down to the pads of her fingers, letting his aura gently brush against hers at the same time. The Anchor flickered once, a stray, meaningless burst of light, and he smoothed over it, quieting the mark. She allowed it without a word, and then traced the same paths on his own hands, in a mirror of his motions.   
  
His fingers were longer, and though they'd seen more use than hers, still more aristocratic in appearance. He wondered if she envied him for it, if he made her feel inadequate for her own rough human hands, but then she pressed against the center of his palm, and it tickled. His hand closed reflexively, and she pulled her fingers back before he could catch her; strangely playful.  
  
As they were both looking down, he found himself pressing his forehead against hers. Her hair tickled at his scalp, but not enough to be annoying.  
  
“Better?” she asked, and tangled their fingers together, squeezing. This felt good too, almost hard enough to hurt, but real, perfectly real.  
  
He moved, sliding his forehead to one side until they were pressed temple to temple.   
  
“Better,” he breathed, and it sounded like 'thank you'.


End file.
